


Trixie & The Haberdasher's Dungeon

by SneakyKGB



Category: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Reality, Gen, RPG
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 06:48:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SneakyKGB/pseuds/SneakyKGB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Trixie was 'great and powerful' she had to make due playing pretend. Hours of her time were devoted to the popular game Age of Nightmare, a fantasy tabletop role-playing game based on the myth of Nightmare Moon. Years later Trixie is in Canterlot to see an old friend about some changes to her costume when she has a brush with her old vice. It turns out the local haberdasher is hosting a game of Nightmare soon, and Trixie and Topstitch are at the top of the invite list.</p><p>When you take a boastful magician, an easy-going seamster, Canterlot's top doughnut chef, and an excitable haberdasher, it starts to sound like a bad joke. Mix in an unexpected visit from royalty and what's the worst that can happen?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Up On High

The sky is a domain of the privileged. Somewhere up beyond the clouds a world exists that is forbidden to those weighed down by the chains of a mundane individual. For those ground-dwellers the sky is a symbol of freedom, the ability to go wherever one wants and choose their own fate, for better or worse. To others, those graced with wings or augmentations of a mythical nature, it's a playground. The expanse of fluffy white is a sea or a spring that they can play in to their heart's content, their own private wonderland. There are those who reject the laws of the world, those who challenge the natural. For some individuals, ones of courage, ingenuity, and above all: spirit, the sky is closer than it seems.

**“WOOOOOOO!”**

Birds scattered, the sound of an exuberant shout tearing across the peaceful silence of the sky. The terrible shriek of a predator followed as the birds fled for safer skies. A bulge emerged in the patch of clouds, a triumphant laughter echoed across the horizon, and the pointed tip of a purple hat emerged through the sea of white. With a single last beat of it's powerful wings a creature blasted out of the cloud cover, shrieking again as if to challenge the heavens themselves. The griffon climbed higher, and its rider cackled. The unicorn stood on hind-legs atop the creature, one hoof wrapped around the griffon's neck and the other clamped on the brim of her witches hat. The mare's coat was a parallel to the sky itself, her long curved mane a shade of silver-blue. Fierce purple eyes watched the cloud-front ahead of them as her lengthy cape flapped wildly in the breeze.

Trixie whooped again, a challenge to whatever false-god that would dare to challenge her place in the air. “Is that all you've got, feather-brain?” she bellowed over the wind, “Help Trixie show the world the true meaning of speed!”

The griffon shrieked again, banking slightly left and allowing its wingtip to cut along the cloud surface below them. Trixie adjusted accordingly, not the least bit concerned that the griffon would be able to throw her in the event that it tried. There was a feeling of elation like no other in her breast. Of all the ponies in the world, she deserved this. They walked on the ground below, less than specks to her now, because they were nothing compared to Trixie. No tenacity, no soul, no drive, they were still stranded on that dust-ball. Not Trixie, since day one she'd told herself that there was no force that could stop her, that The Great and Powerful Trixie was simply the best. Period.

Trixie's dangerous mount kicked its head back, jolting Trixie as it prepared to dive back down through the clouds. The unicorn braced herself as the creature's beak plunged through the first layer and its wings folded, the griffon going vertical. Trixie held her breath, snapping her eyes shut and shivering against the cold and the moisture as they plummeted down. Halfway through the dive she began to lose her grip, after all she didn't have much to hang on with. To compensate for her woefully basic appendages she released a spark of magic, utilizing a gravity spell to keep her hooves firmly planted along the griffon's spine.

“Hah! That's what Trixie's talking about!” The force of wind giving her a natural facelift did little to hold back her boisterous voice. The griffon chattered beneath her, seemingly pleased to have done well by the great magician.

They shattered through the lower clouds. Equestria rolled along beneath Trixie, tranquil and wild as ever. Rolling green hills and expansive forests. So much land left unpopulated, but here and there she could spy a town or a small city, even a number of farms strewn throughout the nowhere territories. All of it was sovereign to Princess Celestia, but in the mind of the azure mare on high, she had just as much right to that world as anypony else.

Their destination was close now, more than sight she could feel it. Trixie had been training for a long time, how long she couldn't even remember. The time had finally come for her to establish herself freshly in the minds of those few who had doubted her. Those insignificant ponies who thought to laugh and cast scorn towards a humble showmare. Trixie had tamed the sky itself, there was no obstacle that she couldn't overcome, and no objective that she could not take into her possession.

It was time. The world slowed for her. The griffon's wings took long minutes to reach their peak before powering back downward. Trixie took a deep breath... and released her grip on the monster. The unicorn stepped backwards, spreading her forelegs above her head as if announcing her next big show. Trixie felt the curved flank of the griffon, the base of its tail a nub underhoof. Somewhere far away the griffon cried out its predator's yell. Letting gravity do its thing, Trixie jumped. Trixie fell.

A blue speck fell out of the sky, a mystery for any who looked up to see it. Trixie might as well have been a star falling out of space. The mare's hat clung snugly to her head, her cape almost threatening to be torn off as she dove headfirst towards the ground. The ballots were closed, the time for do-or-die had come at last. Trixie kept her eyes open as long as she could, but the wind dried them out and they were soon watering as her body attempted to keep them moist. The portrait beneath her grew more and more detailed. Trixie could see individual houses, the fence surrounding a farm, the ponies strolling down countryside roads. The wind rushed in her ears, and she clamped them down against her head to stifle it so that she could think. For the first time she wondered if she'd gone too far, if The Great and Powerful Trixie had overestimated herself and stepped willingly to her own death.

_As if Trixie would make it so easy for you, Reaper,_ the mare taunted in her mind, currently unable to speak or hear herself even if she chose to. The ground had to be close now, at least on the relative scale of things. Trixie knew she had to force her eyes open if she was going to have any chance at survival. Above - and below her at the same time - her cape was twisting and cocooning around her body, trapping and distracting the mare. _You'll have to stare into the face of defeat this time._ She concluded her thought.

Energy coursed throughout her length. The mare channeled it in pulsing lines from each of her limbs. Trixie could almost feel the magic tingling at the tips of each hair in her mane as it coalesced at the spot just beneath the base of her horn, waiting to be released. There was a zen-like peace to channeling magic, and Trixie had gotten it down to an art. One of the simplest ways for a unicorn to amplify her power was to learn how to focus energy not just from one's mind, but their entire body. For all that the universe was concerned, Trixie may as well have been the conductor of energy itself, waving her wand as the symphony elegantly gathered her natural strength and pooled it between her eyes.

Now or never. Trixie's eyes snapped open, fighting against the wind. The roar had returned, threatening to shatter any semblance of concentration. The unicorn's horn glowed with a severe intensity and quickly warmed to the temperature of an oven burner on one of its lower settings. Trixie knew what to do, clarity was just another score on the board that hung below her title. The air around her compressed somewhat, bending and protesting as Trixie's magic gripped it. At such speed it was hard to gauge how best to snag the air rushing around her, but she caught on quickly to its game. More magic. It was practically exploding off of her. If she hadn't looked like a falling star before, she certainly did now as the purple light surrounding her turned her into a beacon.

It was simple. Trixie could shed the kinetic energy from her fall into the air around her. With magic she could convert it into raw energy to burn off as fuel for the very spell that was drawing it in. Controlling the air around her she could thicken and contract it until it was as if she were sliding to safety down a little glass tube. Still, it took concentration. Trixie bit down on her lip, muting her own ego for once as she she dropped out of the air and fired off wave after wave of magic. Sparks lit up around her, electrical discharges as she turned excess energy to physical form and let it disperse. It wasn't enough, Trixie forced more power to twist to her will. Arcs of lightning flashed beside her, startling and nearly interrupting her flow. Another flash, something singed the edges of her hat. Grunting with effort, she tried to expand the area in which the energy was discharging. The lightning lanced out all around her in a semi-sphere, each bolt fizzling out just as the next one came into being. So concentrated on the act, Trixie didn't notice a simple fact: it was working.

The ground was in full detail. Trixie could see leaves swaying, grass bowing to the horizontal breeze as the unicorn battled a vertical one. The showmare's flashy descent had slowed, for sure, but she was still going dangerously fast. Trixie swallowed a hard lump before taking a stab in the dark. The unicorn curled and flattened herself out until she was upright again, hooves pointed at the ground. Trixie picked up speed slightly as her concentration was diverted from the field around her, but not enough to make a difference if her bid succeeded. Power trickled out of her horn, supplementing her limbs instead and reinforcing bone and muscle tissue.

_Trixie can do this,_  she thought. _I can do this._

Impact was brutal. The ground gave off a blunted _boom_  as four hooves touched down, forcing Trixie into a crouch and causing her to collapse onto her stomach over the imprint her landing had made on the earth. Trixie's horn was still hot, in her panic she hadn't released the flow of magic yet and it was burning off energy without any focus. There was pain, Trixie could feel her limbs screaming at her for doing such a stupid thing in the first place as her mind berated poor Trixie for choosing style over logic, for doing such a thing purely to see if she could. Those voices in her head were muted though, muted by a much louder shout, one that sounded more like her own voice.

“HAH! Take _that_  universe! Trixie is the master of land and sky, Trixie cannot be destroyed by the force of gravity itself. Trixie bends the energy of the natural world as if it were her little toy doll.” Trixie got to her legs, ignoring the pain and stamping out an applauding rhythm as she delighted in her own success. “Behold,” she bellowed to the silent field of daisies that surrounded her. “The Great and Powerful _Trixie_!”

“Well that's a relief,” a condescending and sarcastic voice called. “I thought _everypony_  would have forgotten you by now, at least you still have Trixie to remember you.”

Trixie looked up, matching glares with the figure whom she had traveled to face. It had been over a year, but she looked just the same. “Twilight Sparkle!” she spat, “You and your friends poked fun at Trixie, but Trixie is back to prove that you were then, and always will be, less than Trixie.”

“Trixie...” the purple unicorn replied, false concern dripped from her tone and belayed the sly grin she was aiming Trixie's way. “How do you prove you're better at magic if you don't even have a horn?”

“W-what?! Trixie has... did you not see... t-there was falling, and Trixie...” The unicorn ceased babbling. Trixie stared up and inwards as she fell to Twilight's mind-games. Of course she had a- oh no.

The showmare's eyes went wide, she scratched and prodded at her face and tried to will the protrusion back into existence. It was undeniable, her horn was just gone. Trixie's horn was gone and Twilight stood across from her, the insufferable nobody that she was, grinning. Happily grinning at her second victory over an obviously superior opponent. What could Trixie do? What use was there trying to fight a unicorn without magic? All that training. All that time spent developing her technique, wasted?

“Never!” Trixie screamed, launching herself at Twilight as-

 

 

*** * ***

-As the showmare tumbled off of her bed. Trixie face-planted on a wood floor as the room around her skidded to an abrupt stop. The unicorn was still breathing heavily, trying to get her bearings and drag herself out of the scratchy tasseled blanket that she was now caught in. It took a few furious moments to realize that she was completely alone and in a dark and safe place that could only be described by the mare as 'home'. Trixie sighed rubbing her forehead softly as a vicious headache rocked her world. The mare forced a small nervous chuckle as she righted herself and moved to the window.

The curtain was pulled back by magic and sunlight poured in. The small sheet of fabric had induced near black-out darkness, but the sun shone brightly outside and threatened to blind Trixie as it overtook her caravan. The light spilled over a cramped space that was filled with various props and tools of her trade. Makeup was strewn below her vanity table, where it had lurched away from its corner in the sudden stop. Playing cards were everywhere, along with a thin layer of bright green dust that glittered in the sun. A rack had fallen over, spilling her star-spangled hat and cape onto the floor.

Trixie picked up those sacred objects. The fabric was thoroughly worn, there were several minor breaks in the seams of her cape, and her hat's brim had lost some of its stability. The unicorn carried them over to the windowsill, staring out across the green grass that blanketed the scenery beside the road. The unicorn looked down at her hat and cape, fondly remembering each performance back to the day she'd acquired them. Gently, and very bluntly, she tossed them out the window.

A 'hmph' escaped her lips. “Trixie needs a new costume,” she announced, turning away from the window.

In no time she was hitched up to the wagon yoke and trudging along. Magic was a convenient way to keep her caravan moving whilst she slumbered, but the headache she acquired from the prolonged task was a force to be reckoned with, even for Trixie. Trixie's destination was just ahead now, the city on the mountain: Canterlot. It was still a ways off, but she was glad that she could at least see the gold and white spires of the city now. Trixie's enthusiasm was dampened by the thought that she'd soon be dragging her caravan up those dangerous exhausting slopes.

“Hah... Trixie knew she should have just taken over Equestria and became an empress instead. A life of travel seems much more glorious before you experience its 'charms'...”

The showmare looked fondly at the city creeping closer and closer. Canterlot wasn't quite home, but it was special to her nonetheless. It was where she'd cultivated her talent for magic, where she'd honed herself into the spectacular performer and magician that she had become. It was where she'd grown up. Canterlot was the city where she'd proven that a little filly with absolutely no clue what she was doing could become something great if she tried hard enough. Trixie had been all around Equestria,but nothing beat getting back to one's roots.

Trixie squinted against the sun in her eyes. The loss of her hat may have been premature. _Trixie won't be compared to some aged old hat,_ she thought, justifying her betrayal as she left the clothing articles behind. She’d been looking to update her show anyways. _Perhaps Trixie's dream was prophetic,_ she mused. _A griffon would certainly be an interesting addition to the show._ Although she loathed the idea of sharing a stage, it was worth the consideration. If she could find a feral griffon it would be the same difference as a wild animal. A pet. She made a mental note to keep her eye open.

 

 

*** * ***

The closer she got the more ponies Trixie passed. Some were royal guards doing their rounds. As always, she drew stares. Despite her agitation at the heat and the effort she exerted to keep the wagon moving she smiled and waved, holding her head high. _Trixie will be damned before she lets these ponies think a task this slight could wear her down._  A few loud greetings, a couple prolonged stares, and Trixie was satisfied that she’d be able to count on at least a few of the passing ponies to take interest in her next show. Being a performer was as much about salesmanship as it was about the magic. No one wanted to see a magician who didn’t look the part in her off-time too.

A few curious mobs later and she was up to the gates. The guards were always a hassle in bigger towns like Canterlot. For the most part they didn't bother anypony coming or going, but they were obligated to search caravans and traders' wagons. That quickly became a problem for Trixie. Being great and powerful also came with its share of jabs and malcontent hecklers. It just so happened that guards often fell into that group.

Two armored pegasi approached her wagon, each taking one side and looking over it. Trixie's caravan was in much better shape than her cape and hat, in no small part due to the fact that she'd had to acquire a new one in the events at Ponyville. The new wagon was slightly smaller, painted in an icy blue, but of a lightweight construction that made it considerably easier to haul around. The red roof had returned, if a little flatter than her old wagon's roof. Trixie unhitched herself with a quick shot of magic and chased the pegasus on her left to ensure he didn't muck about with Trixie's instruments.

“Great and Powerful, eh?” the guard scoffed, reading the curly gold script painted across the side.

Trixie nodded definitively, “Of course, Trixie is the foremost magical performer in all of Equestria. Trixie's show boasts record breaking attendance numbers amongst traveling entertainers.” The mare looked down at her hoof nonchalantly. _No big deal, really. Relatively low on Trixie's list of accolades._  She was still intensely proud each time she said it.

The guard shook his head. “Sounds like a bunch of hot-air. How can you stand working for a phony like that? She pay you in smoke and mirrors?” The guard chortled, nudging her.

“Ha. Ha.” Trixie replied, callously. “No, Trixie pays assistants quite generously.”

The guard didn't catch on to her tone, or didn't care. Either way, he reached the rear of the caravan and shoved it open. Without so much as a pause, he stepped up and observed the mess inside. Trixie watched, digging at the ground impatiently, as the pegasus sniffed at the dust that had spilled all over the floor and poked at a cushion in one corner. The showmare was abruptly aware of the box of fireworks sitting in plain sight beside her bed. _For the love of Celestia, don't let this oaf-_

“These explosives?” The guard asked as he sniffed at the head of a bottle rocket. What was he doing sniffing everything anyways? Was his mother a hound dog?

“They're fireworks, obviously,” Trixie corrected. “Trixie uses them to attract a crowd and set the scene for more elaborate parts of the performance.”

The pegasus looked around the caravan again, still not cluing in on a very simple fact. “Does your boss have a permit for this stuff? Where is she anyways, get lost pulling a rabbit out of a hat or something?”

“ _I'm_  Trixie, you dolt!” she snapped, swinging the door of her caravan inwards so he could see her cutie mark painted brightly against the dark wood. “And _of course_  Trixie has the proper certification for _all_ of the props in this caravan, as well as a license to perform on public property!” she cut him off before he could inquire about that tidbit as well.

The guard looked from the painting on the door to Trixie – or, more accurately, her flank – before soaking in a few moments of silence. The pegasus was a statue as his minuscule mind tried to work out whether he should be boorish or respectfully penitent. Evidently he decided on the option that allowed him to flaunt his authority. “Well, Miss Trixie, or is that just 'Great and Powerful'? We're taking your wagon for further investigation, as well as your certification to confirm its legitimacy.” The pegasus smiled triumphantly.

Trixie's eyes narrowed. “Have you ever seen a pony sawed in half?” she asked grimly.

“Nah, just some cheap illusions from two-bit magicians.” The guard flicked a wing, pointedly saying 'get out of the way' with the gesture.

_Trixie would destroy you._  She thought, venom coursing through her. If there was one thing from her dream that had been true to life, it was that she had been training. The mare's already astounding magical prowess had grown in leaps and bounds as she struggled to improve her show everywhere she went. Then again... the last thing Trixie needed was a chase throughout Canterlot, or a stay in the dungeons. There was always the option of hit-and-run, but Trixie would rather die fending off Celestia herself than be forced to replace her wagon again.

“Very well, Trixie will accompany you to the legal offices. Don't touch Trixie's things!” The mare snapped, stepping down and allowing the guard to exit her property. When he was clear she slammed the door shut, catching a bit of his tail on the way.

The guard yelped as a clump of hair was yanked out. Trixie resisted the urge to point and bellow triumphantly as he drew the crowd’s attention. The pegasus shot her a glare and snorted angrily, Trixie shrugged benignly, a satisfied smile on her face. The guard took off, regrouping with his companion and leading the way through the gates with a few shouts. Trixie smugly hitched herself back up to the wagon and pulled it along into the city.


	2. Home Is Where Your Hat Hangs

There are legends of creatures that move through shadows as a fish would water. Some say they are winged demons, the stuff of nightmares, that came to torment the wicked. Others believe them to be ponies who have spent their entire lives studying the arts of subterfuge and mastering the arcane to bend nature itself in their favor. It is said that they could cross a forest in autumn without ever touching a single leaf. Trixie was not one-such creature, but she figured that if they really existed it was only a matter of time before they arrived to welcome her into their fold, so impressed by her talent for subtle movement.

Just moments ago she had escaped the legal offices, and for the second time in one night she found herself attempting to access a second-floor window. Trixie had been imprisoned by the guard with little besides her own thoughts and mud-flavored coffee as they tediously reviewed her credentials. It had all been going well, at least until they realized that her pyrotechnics license was out of date - really, she’d been meaning to renew it when she had the time. That was the first signal that she ought to make a hasty retreat, facilitated by a cleverly timed trip to the little fillies room. Unfortunately, leaving behind her wagon and the majority of her possessions left her a penniless magician in a city ruled by wealth. At some point she would find a way to get them back, once the city guard had cooled off, but in the meantime no hotel would take her in on her word alone, and she still needed a place to stay. Luckily, one doesn’t often become famous without having made a few friends first.

So there she was, perched atop a narrow ledge beside a fire-escape and clinging dearly to the wall behind her. The moon was particularly dim that night, making the alleyway below seem more like a chasm, despite the glinting silver rims of a trash can or two. Trixie took a deep breath, shaking the thought out of her head and focusing on her task. The window she meant to access was just beside her now. Easy as cake, naturally. Trixie simply reached one hoof towards the pane and gently pushed upwards. It didn't budge. Trixie tried again, applying more force while still clinging to the wall. Still, the window didn’t open. The mare gave a sneer and pounded against the glass, a moment later the recoil from the blow shook back up her foreleg and threw off her balance. Trixie flailed momentarily, her hair standing on end as everything from her tail to her ears attempted to glue the mare back to the wall and gradually succeeding.

“Who in _Equestria_ locks a second floor window?” Trixie snapped at no one in particular. The window seemed unsympathetic. “Oh, you think Trixie would surrender to you? You're nothing. Trixie's magic would blow you clean off your hinges!”

An appropriate spell came to mind. The edges of the window glowed an ominous purple as Trixie wove a modicum of her energy into it. The glass swelled outward like a balloon inflating and creaked with progressively higher volume. Then, all of a sudden, it stopped. It occured to Trixie that causing a small explosion while clinging to a building wasn’t the best plan of attack. _That griffon would've come in handy, in case Trixie falls,_ she mused. Thinking more clearly, Trixie reconfigured the spell in her mind for a much quieter approach. If she could just undo the lock, there’d be no need for theatrics. The window began to glow again, much more faintly until... nothing. The magic fizzled out abruptly, smothered by some counterspell.

“ _What?_ ” Trixie spat. She could almost imagine the window chortling at her. It would’ve been easy to just slide out of her way, but shut it stayed, leaving her to freeze on the side of a building all night. It was mocking her.

 _Boom!_  The window shattered outwards. Glass rained down into the alleyway, temporarily illuminated by purple light. The wooden frame was blasted apart, creating a sizable hole through which a cloud of grey smoke trickled up over the rooftops. Trixie gave a yelp, swishing her hooves through the air as the building rumbled and tried to throw her from its side. In a fear of gymnastic prowess the mare threw herself, sideways, through the gap. Trixie skidded on her chin across the carpeted interior of the room beyond, a graceless yet effective landing. The mare lay still for a moment, catching her breath and enjoying the sensation of solid ground.

“Behold!” she declared in a harsh whisper, “The Great, and Powerful, Trixie!”  
   
As she looked back at the carnage Trixie’s heart fell. A stallion sat upright in his bed, gawking at the azure creature that had just flown through his window. It was a unicorn with a barrel-thick build and a horn of impressive length for a normal pony. The stallion’s faded beige coat, along with a long silvery mane, gave him an aged appearance that was only amplified by the wrinkles his raised brow was inflicting on his forehead. Having lived on the road it had been a very long time since Trixie felt any sense of recognition when faced with another pony, but it was hard to forget Topstitch. The stallion had put on a little weight, but Trixie knew him in an instant, and realized that she had just blown up his apartment right in front of him.

Topstitch blinked at last. “Hello... Trixie.”

Trixie’s ear twitched, the mare growing uncomfortable under his weighted stare. “Why... are you sleeping in the guest room?” Trixie asked.

Topstitch cast a look around the room, prompting Trixie to do the same. The dresser was covered in photographs of Topstitch and other ponies he’d known. In the corner was a desk, littered with clumps of fabric and a mess of cloth patterns. The wardrobe beside her was half open and filled to bursting with a stallion’s clothing. Although Trixie found it hard to doubt her own memory, the room she’d destroyed undoubtedly belonged to the bedraggled stallion before her. Trixie scratched the back of her head, not willing to admit her error, it was still possible that Topstitch had merely changed rooms since her last visit.

The unicorn on the bed replied with a question of his own, “Why didn't you use the door?”

 _Aha! An easy one._ Trixie recovered her usual gusto and replied, “Trixie didn't wish to disturb you by knocking so late at night, so she devised a plan to let herself in.”

“Ah,” Topstitch exhaled. “That was thoughtful of Trixie.”

“Trixie thanks you for noticing.”

Another long silence.

“Trixie is going to sleep now... goodnight.”

“I have spare blankets in the hall-closet,” Topstitch replied, tilting his head towards the door and fighting back a smile. “It's good to see you,” he said, finally.

On her way out Trixie paused, looking over her shoulder to reply, “It’s been a long time, Trixie can’t imagine how you coped without her.” With that the mare left, her hoofsteps retreating down the hallway. About halfway down it he heard a loud thump, followed by swearing. The closet door creaked open loudly, prompting a hushed insult followed by an abrupt slamming noise. The floorboards groaned in protest for a few seconds longer, and finally silence.

Topstitch sat in his bed a moment longer, his expression falling as he rolled his eyes. A chilling breeze was now filling his bedroom, thanks to Trixie’s modifications to the wall. If he could have ignored it he would have, but the stallion got out of bed with a sigh. Somewhere in her over-inflated head he knew that Trixie meant well, but he had hoped that the next time they saw each other would've been under less destructive circumstances. Shivering in the breeze, he found a swathe of thick wool on his desk and pinned it up over the hole. Using magic, Topstitch drove a few tacks into the wall to hold it in place. Satisfied with the patch job, he turned and flopped down onto his bed. It didn't matter, there was no way he'd be able to get back to sleep. It would be nightmares about burglars for a week.

 

*** * ***

“You want a new costume?” asked Topstitch, incredulously. Seeing the showmare without her distinctive hat and cape had been a surprise, but not unduly strange. When Trixie had explained her misfortunes he’d assumed her costume to be among the possessions confiscated.

It was late morning. Both unicorns had suffered sleepless nights, and neither had been in the mood to scrounge for a legitimate breakfast. The end result was eating out, Topstitch’s treat. Following the meal they had been meandering amongst the early risers of Canterlot’s elite. Topstitch played the part much better, dressed in a pin-striped green vest and a white shirt, complete with cravat. The stallion's wavy mane was now properly combed back. Each of them levitated a cup of coffee as they went, Trixie soaking in the sights of Equestria’s great capital. It still wasn’t enough to stifle the yawn that came to her lips.

“Of course,” Trixie replied, sloshing her coffee nonchalantly. “Trixie's act is constantly evolving. If I'm supposed to remain the premiere event in all of Equestria then Trixie must look the part. Trixie was thinking something with more gold this time.”

Topstitch resisted the urge to ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’. “What happened to your old hat and cape?” he pressed, growing stern.

Trixie attempted an evasive laugh at the same time that she swallowed, resulting in spluttering and choking. It had the same effect, which was to stall for time. Recovering, she shook her head furiously as if she’d just remembered the entire ordeal, “I... I mean, Trixie... was attacked.”

“Oh?” Topstitch wasn’t buying it..

“Of course, on the way here Trixie encountered a roving highwaypony, a cunning thief but still no match for me, obviously. There was no choice but to do battle,” the mare shrugged, emphasizing the inevitability, “the rogue damaged my cape and hat, with no chance for repair, but ultimately I was victorious.” Busy as she was, glowing with pride, Trixie didn’t notice Topstitch’s exasperation.

“A mare of your caliber deserves better.” Topstitch agreed complacently. The stallion took a sip of his drink as she ignored him and went on.

“A new costume is just the thing to welcome another glorious era of... _Trixie!_ ” mid-step, Trixie posed, flashing her pearly white teeth at the sky and batting her eyelashes. Before Topstitch could leave her behind her stance lapsed fluidly back into a walking motion.

Topstitch smiled, but his features were still rigid, “You know, it took me a long time to put those together for you. Is Trixie planning on compensating Topstitch in any way?”

The showmare balked, “Topstitch! For shame. Do you not boast of being Trixie's number-one fan? What sort of fan extorts bits from his hero?”

A roundabout way of saying it, but definitely a no. It wasn’t like he’d expected any different, Topstitch knew that Trixie wasn’t much for sentimental value. The seamster bowed his head, but allowed his face to relax and maintained his happy expression.

Trixie smiled as well. It was good to be in friendly company, and now that they were spedning time together she did feel slightly guilty that her visits were so seldom. Both of them had come to Canterlot to make names for themselves, Topstitch all on his own – Trixie had garnered the assistance of her great, though not particularly powerful, aunt. The life of an entertainer went hand-in-hand with jeers and naysayers, but here was a pony who had supported her from the very start. Years later, it seemed like they’d almost accomplished their goals, the seamster and the magician. Perhaps there were a few ponies who hadn’t heard of them yet, but they’d each come a long way. Topstitch had sewn her costume and advertised her shows, and Trixie had helped him get fabric and tools to begin his career. It was a partnership born of necessity, but it served to turn them into good friends.

 _Perhaps Trixie could compensate him a little bit,_  the showmare thought, _after she gets her wagon back, of course... and her new costume._

Topstitch heaved a mock sigh, “I suppose I’d be liable to suffer a sudden lightning bolt if I refused, but I could see myself stitching up another costume for ‘the most magically talented unicorn in _all_  of Equestria.’”

Trixie could practically taste sarcasm. “Do not mock Trixie!” she snapped.

Topstitch shrugged, “I'm only saying. I'm a fearful mortal pony, too lowly to compare with your marvelously groomed fetlocks alone.” The seamster paused to check his watch, causing Trixie to stop as well.

The showmare blocked Topstitch’s path and rounded on him, “Trixie will not be treated like a doe-eyed filly, Trixie demands respect!” She stamped at the ground.

“I guess you've earned it,” he said, patting her head before walking around her. “If I’m making you a costume I’ll need to visit someone first.”

Although Trixie hadn’t noticed it, they’d wandered into the residential strip. Many of Canterlot’s elite lived further up the boulevard, though they were currently in the middle-class neighborhood. Most of the homes here were small townhouses, most two-stories tall, smashed on top of each other, they were cute uniform buildings but nothing to stop and stare at. The showmare feigned disinterest as she trudged silently behind her friend, but she was genuinely curious what Topstitch was playing at. The stallion led her to the only single-story home on the block, a small baby blue abode, and mounted the first of the steps. The showmare made her disdain obvious as she quirked a brow.

“Trixie was under the impression we were making purchases, not house calls.”

“Yes and no,” Topstitch replied, weighing how much he should tell her. “he's a friend of mine, and an ally in the fight for an adequately fancy Equestria.”

The azure unicorn tilted her head, her tone sardonic, “What is that supposed to mean? Trixie won't be inducted into some sort of cult.”  
  
 _Closer to the truth than you know,_ Topstitch thought, repelling a chuckle. “It's an old saying amongst the clothiers here. Those of us who'd profit if the majority of Equestrians began wearing clothes on a daily basis.”

Trixie waved a hoof dismissively, “Some ponies may need itchy clothes to look good, but Trixie is naturally perfect.” Realizing what she’d said Trixie hastened to add, “she would still like a new costume though!”

Unphased, Topstitch went on, “Knee Socks is your best bet. Accessories are sort of his... specialty, he can design a costume far beyond my ability. Plus, you may enjoy him, you have a lot in common.” Topstitch gave his best attempt to be convincing. It was Trixie’s turn to remain doubtful.

The words 'a lot in common' sent up several red flags. Trixie had heard that line before, and typically they were used to describe ponies she couldn’t stand. Vile narcissists, slandering dregs of society, dishonest troublemakers. There weren’t many ponies that Trixie got along with to begin with, but ponies like that made it too easy to hate them. It was never clear to the showmare exactly what similarities she shared with those ponies, but they weren’t readily visible ones. Still, anything that got her closer to her new costume was an ordeal she was prepared to tolerate. The mare finished off the last of her coffee, crushed the cup with a short burst of magic, and tossed it to the side. She nodded, giving Topstitch the all-clear to knock.

The seamster shot Trixie a miffed look before he picked up the trash and stowed the polystyrene ball within his own empty cup. She ignored his matronly stare. Rolling his eyes, Topstitch approached the front door and rapped on it a few times. Silence followed. The two ponies idly scanned the street while they waited. Topstitch began to wonder if it was too early to have paid a visit. The morning was mostly passed, but it wasn’t absurd that Socks could have chosen to sleep in. Soon, however, they heard the grind of a metal slide and the latch on the door popped up as the boards swung inward.

Trixie faltered. She would have rathered die than admit it, but the pony before her had stricken Trixie speechless. The earth pony stallion was squat, though not portly. his coat was a light periwinkle and what was visible of it had a healthy sheen. Knee Socks had covered himself from nose to tail in drapings. He wore a brown vest and a cream shirt, with a blue tie hanging lazily from his neck. White cuffs adorned his fetlocks and a plaid golf cap sat atop his curly orange mane, which matched the ginger fuzz around his muzzle. He even wore glasses, circular spectacles that were so far down his nose that it was obvious he didn’t need them to see. Worst of all, however, were the tall navy blue socks that covered the entirety of both of his hind legs, each one embroidered with a black inky blotch behind a crescent moon. Socks’ own cutie mark was barely visible, but appeared to be some sort of black cloak.

“Socks!” Topstitch greeted him loudly, drawing attention away from the dumbstruck mare, “would you mind humoring us for a while?”

The thin line of Socks' sleepy frown immediately changed into a big gleaming smile. Trixie could only gawk critically, her eyebrow arched at a ridiculous height. A few quick calculations led to one snap decision: she hated him. No one dressed like that without a motive. From his socks to his hat, everything about the stallion was like a great red blip on Trixie’s presence-detecting radar. Socks was the kind of pony to walk into a room wearing a fruitcake on his head, then delight as everypony stared in his direction. An attention-grubbing, self-important, pretentious jerk. Just another in a long line of insufferable ponies trying to snag the spotlight from deserving prodigies.

The offender just stood there, oblivious of his crimes. His accent was pure Canterlot, his tone slathered in a barrel’s worth of ecstasy, “Of course, sure! Anything for a fellow brother of cloth.” Socks smirked, gently brushed his tie, and adjusted his hat before continuing, “Who could this be with you, though?”

This was her chance. Trixie nudged Topstitch aside and put a hoof to her breast. Proudly, she declared, “The _Great_  and _Powerful_  Trixie, of course.”

Topstitch rolled his eyes and clarified, “She's a client, and an old friend.”

“The very oldest!” Trixie corrected, jabbing sharply at Socks' eyes.

“Well, well,” Socks said, his stare appraising. “I'm Knee Socks, haberdasher extraordinaire, but I'm sure Topstitch has raved all about me.”

“Never heard of you.” Trixie scoffed, admiring her hoof pointedly.

Knee Socks did what she hadn't expected, he laughed. The stallion laughed heartily and when he recovered he regarded her with a grin. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Trixie. Come inside and I'll see what I can do to help you.”

Topstitch took the lead. “We're looking to provide Trixie with a new hat and cape for her act,” he said.

“Aah,” Socks cooed in a knowing manner. “So you'll be wanting my _other_  half,” he muttered diabolically. Trixie was now positive that she didn’t want to follow him inside.

Nonetheless, they accompanied Socks into the foyer. There was a dead plant at one end of the hall, morosely clinging to the cream-colored walls around it. A set of hooks hung on the wall by the door, jam-packed with more types of hat than Trixie had known to exist. The mare poked at one wooly abomination as if it might leap off the wall at any moment. Topstitch chastised her as she looked at the hat with undisguised disgust. Socks hadn’t noticed, he was already gone, leading them off a side passage into the living room. Trixie hurried to catch up, still skeptical of the lunatic's den, which Topstitch had lured her into.

“Hope no one minds clutter,” Socks called back to them, “I've yet to find a way to contain genius.”

The living room was piled high on one end with cardboard boxes that ranged in all sizes, a thin layer of packing materials coated the ground around the mountain. Upon closer inspection there were scarves, caps, cuffs, and other assorted accessories poking out of each box. A variety of sewing supplies also littered the ground nearby. Trixie stepped hesitantly into the mess, trying her best not to be swallowed by it. The room was almost empty of decorations or furniture, save the two small beat-up couches in the center of the room, which were also laden with gloves, socks, and hundreds of half-drawn designs. It felt like Socks’ living room had literally been devoured by clothing apparel.

“Explain to Trixie why you need the aid of a mad hatter?” Trixie hissed, shaking a scarf off her leg.

Topstitch made himself at home, neatly moving aside a box so he could sit. Socks plopped into the far one, provoking a puff of papers and dust to take flight. Trixie gawked at the two of them as if she were the only one who could see their surroundings. The haberdasher was clearly insane, and she had been unwittingly yanked into his overdressed lair. Trixie shook her head roughly, _it’s for Trixie’s costume_ , she thought. That reasoning was enough, she forced back her disgust long enough to knock a top-hat carelessly to the floor and take its place on the sofa, beside Topstitch.

Socks grunted loudly. “Haberdasher,” he corrected, “that's not all though, I picked up a side-hobby too. Low-key, very exclusive.”

Trixie glared, “Trixie assumes you have a point?”

“Costumes!” Socks exclaimed, pleased to have drawn out a reaction. The haberdasher's excitement was equivalent only to Trixie's trepidation. “I design and produce costumes for fantasy endeavors. Role-playing events, cosplay, the occasional Nightmare Night celebration.”

“Role-playing?” Trixie asked.

“Live-action, mostly. Some people like to have costumes for tabletop games as well, although I guess you've got no idea what I'm on about.” Socks chuckled, looking wistfully towards the far side of the room.

Trixie stared blankly, but she knew exactly what he was talking about. Socks went on, explaining the fundamentals of role-playing games, but she had stopped listening. How could she have been so blind? Had Topstitch planned for this? Across the room, buried beneath colorful capes, was a shelving unit Trixie hadn’t spotted before, each square partition held a different plethora of items. One held a handful of small figurine, ponies clad in armor, skeletons wielding swords, a large brass dragon that towered above the rest. Another compartment was packed with large hardcover books that all bore the same seal and the letters 'AoN' on the spine. Trixie remembered them, because she’d owned most of them as a filly.

“... one of the big ones was Age of Nightmare, my personal favorite,” Socks went on, “it was based on the myths of Nightmare Moon, set in a universe where she took over the land and wrought misery on all of Equestria. As you can imagine, it's lost some of its fame in recent years, and there was a bit of worry that it might be outlawed due to its theme. It's all in good fun though.”

The showmare rolled her entire head back before glaring at Socks. “Trixie _knows_  Nightmare, of course Trixie knows Nightmare! Trixie knows _everything_  about Age of Nightmare, you insufferable hatter!”

“Oh, you used to play?” Socks asked, not at all affected by her outburst.

“'Used to play',” Trixie mimicked, flourishing her hoof as a grin overpowered her features. “Age of Nightmare runs in Trixie's veins thicker than her very blood. You would be astounded at the vast compendium of game knowledge Trixie has memorized. Trixie has seen to the completion of hundreds of epic campaigns at the hoof of brutal game masters, and perfected the skill-point allotment to create a character as incredible as Trixie herself. Trixie cast her own dice out of plastic molten by dragonfire!” by the time she’d finished the showmare was shouting, breathing heavily and stamping her hoof with each sentence.

The stallions both blinked. Another silence unfolded, Trixie was perched on the edge of her seat, jabbing a hoof at Socks, daring him to be unimpressed. Maybe the last bit was a small lie, but she had _pretended_  she was a dragon when she learned the heating spell she’d used to make the dice. The Cute and Childishly Inaccurate dragon roars of filly Trixie still echoed through her adult mind. Besides that, it was all true. Trixie had spent years honing her skills at that stupid game before she became a magician. It made her wonder just where her dice had gotten to, or whether her great aunt still had her Nightmare source books. It was hard to keep up with hobbies like that when she was constantly traveling.

Topstitch was still stunned to silence, having been unable to foresee her reaction. Knee Socks, however, could hardly keep his mouth shut. The haberdasher was overjoyed as much as he was bewildered. Socks was absolutely shaking from his attempts to stifle the laughter broiling in his throat. It was almost too much to believe. Socks had spent months moaning about Age of Nightmare, and trying to round up a suitable group of players to join his game. Trixie was an answer to his prayers. It had been a long time since he’d seen anyone as excited about the game as she was. Well, he’d never seen anyone _that_  excited, but the point remained the same.

“This is... marvelous,” Socks said, clapping his hooves softly as he regained control of himself, “I trust you have all the source material then? You could borrow mine, if you need a refresher.”

Trixie bristled, “Perhaps you misheard, Trixie's memory verges on photographic!”

Topstitch was beginning to think he was the one who’d walked into a lunatic’s trap. The seamster stood, forcing Trixie back into her seat before attempting to likewise sedate a bouncing Knee Socks. They both looked completely insane. He rounded on Trixie first, “We came to talk about your costume, business first. I didn’t even know you still cared that much about Nightmare...”

“Nay,” Trixie snapped, worming out of Topstitch's grip and rearing up in protest, “Trixie wants to discuss Nightmare!”

Knee Socks was clapping again, “We can count on her for our fourth!”

“I'm... beginning to think that's a bad idea.” Topstitch replied, smiling crookedly as he gave up and fell back onto the sofa.

With much effort, Socks managed to compose himself enough to have a serious discussion. “Well, I could draw a concept... you know though, I've developed a terrible artist’s block lately. It... could take a few days.”

Topstitch smacked his face with his hoof. “Socks...”

“I'm just saying, Stitchy! I'm hosting a game in a couple of days, if Trixie's waiting on her design _anyways_  she might as well join us, right?”

“A game? Of Nightmare?” Trixie interjected, suddenly snapped free of her tirade. The idea bounced around in her head, a subconscious game of four-square. Trixie had no intentions of staying in Canterlot that long, but until she could steal her wagon back she was stuck there anyways. Trixie wasn’t necessarily opposed to having Topstitch foot the bill for her meals during her stay either. Not to mention it gave her a chance to beat Socks in his own game, in the literal sense if he was playing the game master, and such opportunities didn’t come up every day.

“Come on, Stitchy,” Socks pleaded, “If the two of you attend, we've got a full group. I'll even do you a favor, I'll stitch her costume myself, no extra charges!”

Somehow Topstitch had been caught in this trap. He’d only hoped to coax Trixie into working with Socks based on their common interest, saving him a significant amount of time coming up with a design to meet Trixie’s bloated standards. Now he was wedged between two hardcore fanatics, who both happened to be his best friends. There was no doubt in his mind that Socks was prepared to hold the designs as ransom for as long as the haberdasher deemed necessary. The gleam Socks had in his eyes was borderline obsession. Unfortunately, the enthusiasm emanating off the two of them was getting to Topstitch too.

The seamster sighed, “She won’t be able to play on a regular basis. Trixie works on the road.”

Socks deflated noticeably, he'd been hoping to make the boastful unicorn a permanent addition to his group. Those types always made a group more lively. “It's fine,” he assured, “we'll find a substitute if she has to leave. We can have a marathon session, and she can be on her way.”

“Trixie gladly accepts your challenge,” the showmare retorted, “and when she destroys your campaign, you’ll design Trixie’s costume for free!”

Socks paused, almost dumbstruck, and then burst out laughing again, “This is too glorious. Somepony get me a pillow, I just may faint.” The haberdasher shivered with anticipation, nearly unsettling his hat. Trixie was not amused.

Topstitch rubbed his eyes in a vexed manner. It didn’t look like there was any going back. The seamster gave in, “I suppose we’re in,” he said. “BUT! We need to talk about her costume now, I want you to take this seriously if we’re going to play along with you.”

“Right, right,” Knee Socks recovered, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye. “I hope you have a challenge for me, Stitchy, I'm feeling particularly genius today.”

“Trixie?” Topstitch prodded, glad that he’d gotten his way.

“Eh?” She regarded him with confusion, then disinterest. The mare's mind was still elsewhere, somewhere buried in pages written about orcs, stat modifies, and deadly traps. “Does Trixie look like a designer to you?” she asked, “Make it magnificent, just look at Trixie and be inspired.”

Topstitch's reprieve had been short lived. On to the next challenge, it seemed. The seamster reluctantly took over again, “It needs to be something especially flashy, she has a traveling act-”

“ _Trixie_  is the premiere stage-act in all of Equestria!” Trixie corrected with a growl, she refused to be sold short. The mare fell silent again, nudging Topstitch to continue.

“Right... she works as a magician, so-”

“ _THE_  magician. Trixie's magic is beyond compare.”

“I'm guessing she wants a little more than a used top-hat and some hidden pockets.” Socks replied, smirking.

The seamster nodded and cast a sidelong glance at Trixie. “Definitely. Pointy hat, gemstones, shiny moons... I trust nothing is too amazing for Trixie.”

Trixie flipped her mane, nodding in agreement. “The length of the cape has to be perfect,” she added, distrustfully, “Trixie won't be seen stumbling around the stage because of somepony's neglect.”

Socks maintained his confident stare, “Please, Trix, I'm a professional. I design costumes made for running around in the woods fighting invisible trolls. It'll be maneuverable, and it'll blow your audience's minds. You'll have to step up your magic just to compete.”

The idea of being shown up by her own clothes was something Trixie had never even considered. It sounded ridiculous. The mare scoffed, “Trixie assures you, that won't be a problem. Why should Trixie choose to trust you over Topstitch?”

The haberdasher cast a disbelieving look towards the other stallion. When he looked back at the showmare he beamed. “No offense, but Topstitch is amateur when it comes to this stuff. That unicorn's got his own toy factory, sure, but he's got no clue how to make anything but wooden soldiers and building blocks,” Socks glanced apologetically at Topstitch before continuing, “I'm the store across the street! I’ve got bells and whistles, my toys have karate-chop action. Topstitch can sew you the best party-wear in Canterlot, but he's got nothing on me in the realm of 'spectacular'. Stitchy might do a good job, but I’ll have a design to knock your socks off.”

The showmare crossed her forelegs, disgruntled, “Trixie doesn't want any socks... they itch and make her hooves too hot.”

Knee Socks' lip quivered for a moment. One idea down the drain already. Socks procured a clipboard, jotting down a few notes. “What colors did you want?” he asked, not looking up.

Trixie held up a hoof to silence Topstitch and thought for a moment. “Gold... no, silver. Actually, Trixie would look like she was made of tin... red, maybe? In any case, it had to stand out in the nighttime. Make no mistake, however, Trixie will not be clothed in some neon disaster.”

“I don't know, bright orange would certainly draw the eye.” Socks quipped. Not meeting Trixie's imperious gaze, the mare only seethed more as her stare was wasted on the brim of the haberdasher’s hat. Socks went on, “What color was the old costume? In the showbiz it's good to keep your costume recognizable.”

“What do you think you know about 'showbiz' that Trixie does not?”

“I know performers don't get costumes any faster by questioning the designer.” Socks mumbled.

Trixie huffed and sank back into the plush cushions of the sofa. Although the mare glared at Socks with all the rancor she could muster he remained pointedly unaware as he doodled on a sheet of paper. Trixie leaned, first to one side and then to the other, trying to get a glimpse of what he was drawing but it was no use due to the angle Socks faced her at. They sat in an awkward stalemate as the haberdasher tapped his pen rhythmically at his clipboard. Each crack of the instrument felt like it was reverberating in Trixie's skull, mocking and goading her. Each tap was a wave of scalding water rushing through her brain, erasing her attempts to think up a design that would both amaze an audience and stump the haughty haberdasher.

“Perhaps we should come back later,” Topstitch said irritably. “When Trixie has a clearer idea of what she wants to do.”

Trixie stuck her tongue out at him. “Trixie knows exactly what she wants to do,” she retorted, “she is merely concerned that this... _dubitable_  merchant will fail to meet Trixie's vision. Not just anypony can hold a meeting of the minds with the likes of Trixie.”

Socks frowned in the background. “Guess I should've called to make an appointment,” he muttered.

Topstitch rolled his eyes at the both of them. “I’m sure you’d like to do more while you’re in Canterlot than just peer over Socks’ shoulder all day.”

The seamster had no idea just how much Trixie wanted to do just that. Socks was hunched protectively over his paper, scribbling furiously. Although she couldn’t see it, the shape he was drawing didn’t resemble a costume of any sort. Instead the doodle depicted a pony riding a unicycle, and juggling swords. The pony in question did, however, bear a strong resemblance to The Great and Powerful Trixie. Everypony just assumed he only drew what his work demanded, never considered that he drew things for fun too. Socks had a gallery full of doodles he'd made whilst chatting with clients. This one, he thought, was going to be his favorite. Trixie, however, couldn’t see the slightest bit of it.

“Fine!” Trixie snapped, flicking her tail sharply as she got up. “Trixie has to devise a plan to get her wagon back anyways.” The showmare inched perilously through the sea of clothing, still trying to sneak a glance at Socks’ sketch. The haberdasher paid them no heed, barely offering a farewell as Topstitch fell in line behind Trixie on the way to the exit.

Outside the house Trixie stuck out her tongue and groaned as if she were about to be sick. “ _Why_  would you take Trixie to such an insufferable pony? Does your desire to torment Trixie know no boundaries? His impudence was suffocating, Trixie's never met a pony so full of himself.”

The seamster sighed, “Socks wasn’t lying about his block, he’s had a lot of trouble designing lately. He works better with ponies who are out of the ordinary.”

Trixie snorted, “Dazzlingly generous as she is, Trixie will play along with your half-baked hatter, if only so she can squish him in Age of Nightmare.”

Not to mention extort another free costume. Topstitch smiled, deciding that was the best he was going to get from her. “That's all I ask of you,” he replied.

“Oh,” Trixie said, stopping in the street ahead of Topstitch. “Trixie will require a hat to wear until her ensemble is completed.”

The stallion cocked his head curiously. “Your ears too cold?” he jested.

The showmare didn’t reply. She loathed it, but the lack of a hat on her head was beginning to bother her.

“I think we can find something,” Topstitch chuckled.


	3. Foreign Imports

Later that evening Knee Socks had relocated to his shop in the center of Canterlot. There was an undeniable skip in the earth pony's step as he tended the shelves of the small haberdashery. Normally it was dreary claustrophobic work, reordering the jam-packed store, but his mind was in a far-off place. After his fateful encounter with Trixie he’d been able to think of little else but their upcoming game. It was strangely fortunate that he’d had no business that day. The bell over his door merely collected dust as he bounced from one end of the shop to the other, muttering ideas to himself and grinning at the thought of them.

The haberdashery had been passed along to him by a friend years ago, and he’d never really enjoyed running it. It was a decision of necessity long before desire. In those days he’d been anchorless, completely broke, and had ambitions far beyond his wallet. Gold Hemming had gone on to a larger store in Manehattan, and left his old shop to Socks as a charity. Knee Socks had little doubt that he’d be in a gutter somewhere if he hadn’t taken over. Still, the work wasn’t awful, and he was good at the craft, owning his own store gave him the free time to keep pursuing his other interests. Perhaps his shop wasn’t the most popular in Canterlot, but it kept him in a warm home with good food.

Having finished cleaning the place up, Socks was left to his own devices. It just so happened that he’d brought plenty to entertain himself with. Between planning for his game of Nightmare, and designing concepts for Trixie’s new costume, entertainment wasn’t at a premium. The teak counter at the back of the shop was abnormally burdened with stacks of old tomes, dusty maps he’d pulled from the shelves of the Canterlot library, and an ever-growing stack of documents written in his own mouthwriting. A small blue folder sat to the side of all this, Socks’ design book, along with a mug filled to bursting with drawing utensils.

Socks approached the counter and flipped the folder open at random. The stallion could only sigh as he stared at blank pages. A rainbow of fabric squares rested against the inside cover, testament to Socks’ indecision on color. Whilst the notes and ideas he’d scribbled for his fantasy adventure had grown exponentially over the last few hours the only evidence of progress on his designs were the crumpled balls of paper steadily filling his trash bin. There were a few promising prototypes he’d kept, but he was convinced that he’d lost his mind the moment he began adding frills to Trixie’s cape or drawing a hat with white lace around the brim. The result was clown-like more than anything else, and disheartening to boot.

In contrast, the success he was having with his game planning made the stallion feel almost guilty. Socks had pulled out all the stops in order to make sure the weekend would be a spectacular event. Everything had to be planned and executed with scientific precision. He’d compiled an extensive list of snack choices, and gone on to detail pros and cons. Celery was healthy and slimming, but many ponies didn’t appreciate the fibers getting stuck in their teeth. Everypony enjoys an assortment of baked goods, but it was important to cater to ponies with dietary habits as well. Pizza was pretty much a requirement for any role-playing event.

It was no use. Socks knew he wouldn’t be able to draw anything. The stallion closed his design book and turned back to his notes. Reluctantly he took a pencil from his mug and began looking over what he had so far. Where the actual adventure of his roleplay was concerned the storywork practically wrote itself. In his years as a Game Master he’d stockpiled tons of unused stories, plot devices, and puzzles he could use. Socks really was never more in his element than when he got to put all of these together and watch the game unfold. All that he really needed to do was revise things so that he wasn’t just hashing out old ideas.

A few minutes later when the haberdasher reached for his coffee he found himself choking on only dregs. Socks blinked dimly at the bottom of his mug for a moment or two before clutching the handle in his teeth and getting up to refill it. In hindsight, it probably wasn’t healthy to down a half-dozen cups or more throughout the course of a few hours. Maybe that was why he was shorter than his brothers? Although he considered such things old mare's tales—told in gluttony, most likely to save their coffee hoards—he gave the mug a mistrustful stare. It was short-lived, soon the cup was filled once more and their relationship had since mended.

Back at the counter Socks noted that very little had changed. Shop still empty? Check. Designs still awful? He didn’t dare to look. Perhaps a few more iotas of dust had landed on the register’s keys. Socks rested his head atop his hooves and slurped noisily at his barely-even-warm coffee. Closing shop early and going to find Topstitch was starting to sound like a good idea. As if sensing his boredom the bell above his door jingled. Halfway through tediously turning the pages of a book with his nose, Socks looked up sharply. Every bit of his body flooded with tension, as if the possibility of another pony’s presence had woken up all his joints. _Probably the coffee, actually,_ he thought.

The door opened painfully slowly, but it only took a short glance to set the haberdasher tittering. The newcomer stepped gingerly into the store, his hooves giving an unexpectedly loud thump with every landing. Socks threw appearances to the wind as he leaned perilously over the side of his counter to catch a glimpse of the stranger. In terms of description there wasn’t much to see, the pony wore a gray cloak that covered all of his features besides his hooves clad in ragged boots with metal soles, the source of his noisy movements. In terms of size, however, there was quite a bit to see. The pony-like figure was tall and broad, if not massive then at least large.

The haberdasher quivered with curiosity as the stranger paused to take in the store. Try as he might, Socks couldn’t see under the figure’s hood and he was soon flitting about the shelving with arbitrary glances at the shop’s supply. Something told him that the stranger wasn’t looking to buy some thread for a torn seam. So what did he want? Was he on the lamb? Being chased _by_  the lamb? Socks recalled reading something about a supposed sheep syndicate forming in the Canterlot underground. Despite his apparent interest in a selection of bow-ties it seemed unlikely that he was on his way to a formal dinner. Every so often the stranger’s hood shifted just slightly towards the register, Socks made no attempt to hide his interest.

Much to the haberdasher’s delight the figure seemed to have given up his ruse. Now the pony approached the counter directly and spoke, “Soft silk ties, many stout threads, I am impressed by your supply.That said, and while I mean no disrespect, my intent was not to buy.”

“Wot?” the haberdasher squeaked, suddenly speaking in an accent he hadn’t known existed. The stranger, undeniably a stallion, had Socks enrapt with his sing-song speech.

On the other side of the counter, feelings were not so eager. The stranger looked away before continuing, “Apologies, my speech must sound strange, it is a tradition from my tribe. The old habit has yet to subside.”

He couldn’t help it, Socks giggled. It was the most feminine noise that had ever escaped his muzzle. The stranger was noticeably taken aback, but it was all Socks could do to stop himself from prancing around the newcomer like some schoolyard game. Even so close he could only just make out the outline of the stranger’s face, the shine of his eyes, and the dark stripes wrapping around them. Nevertheless, he had a pretty good idea of the stranger’s origins. The idea of a foreign visitor - possibly on the lamb from the lamb - only served to ramp up his excitement.

The stranger cleared his throat to stave off an awkward silence. “I am Mwali. I’ve stayed in Canterlot a while, and heard rumor that you meant to host a game soon, and would be looking for players. If these words are true, I was hoping I might join in,” he spoke more slowly now, apparently held back by his attempts to speak plainly.  

“You mean Nightmare?” Socks asked, still processing the situation, and prompted a nod. “Age of Nightmare, you wanted to join my group?” he clarified.

Again Mwali nodded, pleased to be getting somewhere.

“...marvelous,” Socks muttered, unable to form a full sentence. The haberdasher slumped his head on his upheld hoof like a filly contemplating her secret crush.

Celestia had lumped all of his eggs into one basket. Where had all these ponies been when he'd been struggling to find Nightmare fans two or three years prior? The game had undergone a heap of scrutiny over the years. It had only gotten worse as time went on. Having been based on the myth of Nightmare Moon, there was a bit of a stir in the community when Princess Luna returned. Suddenly a game based on the supposed corruption and evil conquest of one of their sovereigns seemed a bit like heresy. There was a prolonged period where the game wasn’t even sold in stores for fear of unintentionally slandering the lunar alicorn. The self-imposed ban had lightened up, if only a little, as more ponies accepted that it was harmless fiction.

“I'm sorry,” Socks said, managing to recover before his well-meaning chuckles evolved into a cackle. “That would be fan-tas-tic, you have no idea. Oh, I can't wait to tell the others... please, please, _please_ , come have a seat!”

The haberdasher led the way into the break room, Mwali following hesitantly. The break room was more of a storage closet, filled to bursting with order receipts and boxes of extra merchandise or clearance items. A small oval table sat in the middle of the room, wedged beside a wall of cardboard boxes. The small coffee maker Socks relied so heavily on sat on the edge of the table, pot steadily growing colder. Both of them settled onto a cushion on either side of the table, Socks elected to take the more cramped of the two. 

“You can call me Socks, I'm a haberdasher extraordinaire, but for your purposes...” Socks beamed, “...a dungeon master.” he clacked his hooves together, grinning madly at his own applause.

Mwali eyed the peculiar merchant nervously but made no mention of his actions, “Pleased to meet a pony who takes pride in his work. It’s an honorable quality...” he trailed off.

“Something the matter?” 

“No,” he said quickly, “merely homesick. I have been away only a short time, but it feels like many more moons have passed.”

_It’s as if he has a direct line to my curiosity!_  Socks thought, barely able to keep himself together. It was just too much. Where was he from? What made him leave? Was he being chased by a mafia of wooly monsters or not?! Meeting Trixie had been a blessing in and of itself, Socks couldn’t have been more pleased with the egocentric mare, but egocentric was just the icing on the cake compared to mysterious and foreign. Maybe he could even share some ideas for Trixie’s costume, inspire Socks’ designs with a little international flair.

“I see, I see, so you must be from far away. Is that cloak a part of your customs?”

Mwali was quiet as he shook his head. “It is a recent choice,” he said softly before explaining, “There are worse sorts abound to find, but Canterlot’s elite have not been very kind. It was rude of me to think you might be the same.”

With his booted hooves Mwali pushed back his hood. His eyes were a dark orange hue, standing out against the white of his coat and the dark grey stripes that covered him from ears to hocks. The zebra's mane was mostly dark gray, comprised of two braids on the side of his face and a short mohawk that gave way to a ponytail. Mwali’s gaze was locked onto the coffee maker, his features were strong but he appeared very unsure. In the few seconds it took for Socks to look him over both of them were silent.

“...marvelous,” Socks said, again too awed to form a sentence. “Have you ever considered a bowler? Maybe even a stetson? I think it'd suit you, in a strange way.”

The haberdasher's hoof was halfway towards a box on the wall opposite him when Mwali shook his head emphatically. In his mind Socks swore, angry that his attempts at dress-up had been curbed so quickly. It was clear that he was making the zebra uncomfortable, but he was having a hard time even being that reserved. It was taking most of his restraint to stop himself from asking fifty or more rapid-fire questions about his guest's origin and experience with Nightmare. Socks was ashamed to admit that he hadn’t known Age of Nightmare was ever popular outside of Equestria.

“I trust it would be an impressive headpiece,” Mwali replied apologetically.

Socks winced and bobbed from side to side, “Back to business then, I guess.Technically we have a full group already, but if you’re set on playing we could make some room.”

The zebra didn't look reassured. “I would be gravely disappointed, but I don’t wish to be a burden.”

“Psh.” Socks gave a hollow laugh. “It’s no problem, barely worth the mention. I just want to make sure you’re good for it before I start setting things up with you in mind. Do you prefer celery or carrots?”

“Celery, I think...” said the zebra, nonplussed.

Socks retrieved a small booklet from his counter, scribbling another point for celery. Besides vegetable scoreboards the book would soon contain the final draft of Socks’ script. The entirety of the roleplay’s planning would be stored within it. Right now, however, it was just a bunch of scribbles. Still, to put his striped friend’s mind at rest he flipped through it unceremoniously, pretending to trace lines with his hoof. The zebra leaned forwards, trying to see over the top of the book as Socks made appraising noises and finally snapped it shut.

“No problem,” Socks repeated, “Barely even have to make any changes. It’s a good thing actually, I was hoping to use a few nasty encounters that the party might need an extra for.”

“So, it's no trouble if I play?”

“Nope, the game’s on Saturday,” rhymed the haberdasher, grinning once again.

Mwali smiled for the first time since he’d walked in the store. The zebra still seemed somewhat somber as he spoke, “It’s been a long time since I was able to sit and enjoy a game.”

Socks paused, poking his coffee mug thoughtfully. “Well, we’ll just have to make sure it’s worth the wait then.”

The zebra nodded, pausing quietly before reaching for his cloak. Socks had thought him about to leave and hurried to stand up. A protest was nearly off his tongue as Mwali pulled a small green sack from the folds of his garb and placed it upon the table. The zebra settled once more, silently monitoring his parcel. Socks regarded it with some skepticism. The last time a mysterious foreigner had handed him a bag he’d found himself being questioned by Canterlot’s finest about a salt smuggling ring.

Then again, it was impossible for Socks to resist the allure of a container with unknown contents being offered freely to him. If curiosity had indeed killed the cat then Socks could only hope that he didn’t have any latent feline DNA that just happened to be swimming around his veins.The haberdasher put a hoof down on the bag to hold it still and tugged at the string holding it shut with his teeth. It came loose easily. Socks flipped the bag upside down and prayed that it wasn’t imported salt lick or something equally illegal.

Several small objects poured onto the table. It took Socks only a second to recognize that they were dice. Green, like the bag they came from, except they were translucent and had a glassy texture. Plainly a complete set, for they came in an assortment of shapes for the number of sides they each had. The haberdasher couldn’t help but give an ‘ooh’ of delight as he leaned in to examine them more closely and scoop one into his hoof. It has a surprising weight to it, and definitely wasn’t plastic. Socks admired the golden numbers on each side and realized what the hefty dodecahedron reminded him of.

“Cut emerald gem,” Mwali voiced his thought, not without a significant hint of pride. “in the world exists no equal to them. Beneath their surface lies gold, pure. Though when or why they were made, I can’t be sure.”

“Emeralds?” chuckled the astonished Knee Socks, admiring the numbers just beneath the surface of the stone.

Mwali nodded, as he did so Socks noticed his smile change instantly into a frown, ”I fear I’ve had call to use them only one time. As much as I hate to admit, they would be better suited in another’s hooves than in mine.”

The zebra regarded him quite seriously now. The haberdasher’s heart did a somersault in his chest and his goofy expression faltered. Surely he couldn’t be serious? Socks couldn’t imagine accepting a gift so grand. It would’ve been paramount to highway robbery to agree to such an offer, but he didn’t know that he could really refuse. It would be many nights that he cried himself to sleep before he got over letting these rare dice slip through his hooves. Even as Mwali watched, the question plain in his eyes, Socks couldn’t help but roll the dice around underhoof to admire them all the more. 

“Would it... really be fine?” he asked, all but inches from sweeping them off the table to cover forever. They would be all his, forevermore, his precious.

It was brief, but the zebra definitely hesitated before nodding once more, “It would be my honor to gift them to you.”

“And... you won’t regret it, if you do?”

Mwali shrugged, “So long as you treat them well, I don’t see why I should. It’s selfish to keep them and not use them, when another pony would.” 

Socks kneaded the table roughly as his morals duked it out with his greed. “Well... I’d be lying if I said I disagree, but... what dice will you use if you give these to me?”

A long pause stretched between them. Mwali was regarding him very strangely, and it took him a moment to realize why. It was as though a light bulb turned on over the stripey equine’s head and he began to chuckle. 

“Forgive me once more,” he said through his mirth, “I must have begun to rhyme without realizing it at the time.”

“Oh!” Socks gave a snort, “I see what you meant when you entered my shop, once you get started it can be hard to stop.”

Mwali smirked appreciatively, “Still, for your assent I feel I owe you this gift, in way of payment. If to take them is what you choose, I still have other dice which I might use. However, if my offer you choose to shun then do not worry, for it is no harm done.”

The haberdasher couldn’t resist any longer, he had to have them. “You know all my weaknesses,” Socks said, adopting a businesslike tone. “You are a _shrewd_  customer, Mister Mwali, and I’d be glad to take them off your hooves.”

“Then that is that.” The zebra said simply, reaching out a hoof to seal their agreement.

“One fantastic Age of Nightmare experience, in exchange for priceless emerald dice. Deal,” Socks replied, bumping Mwali’s hoof with his own.

After convincing Mwali to stay a while longer they swapped stories. Socks had relatively little to share, having been a Canterlot socialite most of his life he didn’t have many good stories that weren’t made up aside from local gossip. The haberdasher had a sneaking suspicion that his zebra companion didn’t care much what superstar modelling unicorn, Fleur De Lis, had to say about the Wonderbolts lieutenant. Not that Socks sought out that kind of information either, but word got around. In contrast Mwali had many stories of life in the savannah and the dense jungles of his homeland. It was exhillerating to talk with a pony who had actually experienced strange foreign creatures like the rhinoceros or their gangly distant relations, the giraffe. A pony who had actually experienced tribal culture and, in extreme cases, the conflicts cultural differences could spawn. The longer they spoke and the more at ease the zebra became the more Socks found himself listening, rather than sharing. 

“Once my brother thought to climb atop a sunbird’s back was a clever plan, but our mother’s scolding, and a trip to the doctor, were the price of his attempt to escape the land.” Mwali chuckled, closing his eyes and thinking back to the day. “Things were very different then from what they are now. If I were to list the many ways, I would not know where to begin, or how. Far from home, across ocean and plain, I miss her very much. To go back now, though, could not be enough.”

Socks cocked his head as the zebra stared at some far-off place beyond the walls of the small break room. The haberdasher finished off the last of yet another cup of coffee in the silence that followed between them. When it became apparent that Mwali’s stories had come to an end he replied buoyantly, “You are a _delightful_  enigma. I am certain of two things: Firstly, we’re going to have an unforgettable adventure come this Saturday, and secondly, you’ll be home before you know it.”

The zebra was not so certain. He smiled all the same, retrieving his cloak and standing to leave, “I hope so, like you would not believe. Thank you for your time, haberdasher, and for taking some of the weight off my mind.”

Socks grinned, “Well, I couldn’t just steal your dice and send you away, now could I? Tell you what, I’ll make you a hat, free of charge!”

The zebra laughed, making his way to the shop door.

“I'm serious! What's your favorite color?” asked the haberdasher, chasing after him.

Mwali’s hoof was already pushing through the entryway, “Good night, Mr. Socks. I owe a great deal to you.”

“How about a stovepipe? I do a marvelous busby!”

The zebra was gone. Socks cursed silently, but was not dissuaded. The milliner rubbed his hooves together in a conspiring fashion. One way or another he would get a hat atop the zebra’s head. Be it a busby or a bowler, or even a fez, he would find a way to put a cap upon his striped friend’s crown. Beaming to himself at the very idea, he set to work cleaning up his things. Between scheming, dealing, and getting to know Mwali better it had become quite late. Socks lamented further that he’d had no business that day, but he couldn't persuade himself that his time wasn't well spent.

Thinking of hats served to remind socks that he still had work to do. The haberdasher paused as he went to pick up his design book, still resting on his counter, and he stared at it sternly. If he was going to agree to this, to put his all into crafting a design for Trixie, then he wanted to be absolutely certain that this book was going to cooperate this time around. Socks turned to the first page he hadn’t torn out, a design which incorporated a tall flat collar, a tailcoat design, and rather extensive embroidery all along the cape. He eyed the drawing as if it might bite him and, hesitantly, reached for a pencil with his teeth. At first his progress went slowly, but he began to pick up steam. Lines formed easily, and his eraser struck with carefully considered critique. The tailcoat design was out, Trixie wouldn't want to wander around in a penguin suit. There was something much grander beneath the simple design. For the first time all day he felt like there was a small chance that he wasn’t going to hate what he had created as soon as he stopped drawing it... or at least not until the caffeine wore off.


End file.
